Page 12 of Blood Debt

My hand stills on the edge of the folder. Why was the Italian police looking into my home? I had no run-ins with them.

I look up at him. “Chi?”

Who?

He grins and rubs his palms. “I came all the way here to deliver classified files. Can’t I get a little encouragement?”

I inhale and look at Matteo.

“You will be compensated,” Matteo tells him.

His grin widens. “Then I’ll open my big mouth.

Chapter 3 – Serafina

Divisione Ombra Headquarters, Rome

The moment the elevator doors slide open, I know something’s wrong.

The hall pulses with urgency—boots slapping tile, doors thrown open, a copier shrieking as someone bumps it mid-argument. Men and women in dark suits move like a silent storm through the floor, voices clipped, eyes sharp, hands full of seized files and equipment.

But it’s the insignia on their sleeves that stops me cold.

Federal Bureau of Investigation.

In Italy.

My stomach turns.

I cut through the chaos, heart already rising into my throat. My pace quickens past the bullpen, where agents I’ve worked with for years stand frozen, backs pressed against their desks, watching strangers dismantle everything.

Tony stands near the mission board—expression taut, arms crossed too tightly. A man in a grey blazer speaks at him, not to him, holding a black file labeled with red clearance stripes. Tony isn’t answering. Just staring. A slow burn behind his eyes.

I push through the crowd and step up beside him. “What the hell is going on?”

He doesn’t answer at first. His jaw shifts, throat working around something bitter. The grey-suit walks off, barking orders.

Tony sighs and drags a hand down his face. “The FBI is taking over the Melbourne operation.”

My body stiffens. “What?”

“They’re closing our end. Effective immediately. Control is shifting to their jurisdiction. Command reroute. Full transition by the end of the week.”

My pulse thuds in my ears. “Tony, that’s Isla’s case.”

“I know.”

“She died on that case.”

His silence says more than words.

My mouth goes dry. I turn, watching as two agents lift our field briefings from the ops wall and start sliding them into a black case.

“Get your hands off that,” I bark.

They glance at me, disinterested, and continue.

I step forward, but Tony catches my arm—not hard, but firm. His voice is low. “Let it go, Serafina.”